


like some holy rite

by caelitea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Post-Time Skip, Use of In-Game Dialogue, background blue lions bonding, some background byleth & felix bonding, vague undertones of worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelitea/pseuds/caelitea
Summary: Byleth wakes up and finds Dimitri at Garreg Mach some time before the Millennium. For a while, it is just the two of them.It makes...somewhat of a difference.—Azure Moon reunion, and onwards.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 32
Kudos: 232





	like some holy rite

**Author's Note:**

> HOOOOH BOY I AM FINALLY FLINGING THIS OUT INTO THE OPEN...
> 
> I started this back in December, while I was still playing through Blue Lions as my first route. I mostly knew what to expect, and I knew I would love Dimitri, yet I don't think I quite expected to love him so _overwhelmingly_ , and that reunion cutscene made me SO, SO EMO. At the time I was also listening to Florence + the Machine a lot, and I gathered a few of the songs that struck me as very Dimileth into a playlist to listen on repeat, haha. "No Light, No Light" and "Only If For a Night" were first and foremost among them, the former really getting me started on this fic, and the latter fueling the flame; I listened to both of these _endlessly._ Originally I was going to call this "no light, no light" for the song that really got this going, but then "like some holy rite" from "Only If For a Night" suited it better. This fic really started as just me wanting to write about the reunion scene with a little more bonding time between them, but then it just...kept going...and _going_...and then I ended up writing about the whole ass route, and then even a little beyond. It's primarily just...self-indulgent Dimileth bonding haha. During this time frame of working on this I also finished my Black Eagles run (which...made this fic very hard to work on lol) and now I'm on the Church run, my third!! 
> 
> Blue Lions was my first run but somehow I recruited everyone besides Lorenz, Leonie, and Raphael, I believe (kind of unwittingly took all the Black Eagles kids with me HAHA). While I didn't like Lorenz very much from just his C support, what he says when Byleth confronts him post-skip is so...gentle and sad :( I mention Byleth's previous students dying, but this does also technically operate on the context of how I played that route, so most of them do survive based on recruitment, though this fic focuses solely on the Blue Lions kids. 
> 
> I can't believe this ended up as 19.5k words...I considered splitting it, but I'm a creature of oneshots, so here we are LOL. Thanks for picking this monster up! :')

.

.

.

“You shouldn't go there,” the villager warns as Byleth’s gaze towards the monastery sets with determination, nearly begging as he adds, “I won't be held responsible!”

She doesn't deign a reply, starting to pick her way towards Garreg Mach, slowly but steadily. The more she walks, the more she feels like she's coming back to her body, the movement like oil to her machine even as she feels like she’s walking through a fog. She's still wrapping her head around what the villager said— _it's been five years since Garreg Mach fell_ —but she can't quite believe it. Not that she thinks him a liar. Things are simply too strange; she's been caught in some kind of intricate web since—or even before—she arrived at Garreg Mach, and she has no answers, and Sothis...Byleth knows it was Sothis who woke her, but the goddess is quiet once again. 

And so, amidst all this strangeness, Byleth is alone. 

It's not fear that drives her towards the monastery, even when the villager had recounted the gutted bodies of Imperial soldiers with a shudder. But it is familiarity. She needs to rendezvous. Even if there's nothing there but rubble, even if there's nothing there but monsters and bandits, she has to go, _wants_ to go, to the place that she spent the last year in relative peace, if only so she can think within its ruined walls. 

So she goes, climbing the rocks and rubble and debris, stepping over and past the numerous—too numerous—bodies that litter the ground. She decides on the cathedral for its vantage point, finding the structure largely still intact as she makes her way up the stairs. Even here there are bodies, blood both old and new staining the stone. She doesn't pause at the fresher red; she has not been afraid of enemies for a long, long time. 

The sunlight filtering in startles her after the darkness, but she adjusts quickly. The view distracts her for a moment, but when she casts her eyes over the rest of the open space, she realizes there is someone else here.

Byleth is calm; her senses are attuned and rarely lapse, despite Sothis scolding her in the past for being dull. Whoever this is—they are not an enemy. 

As she takes her first steps towards the figure crouched in the shadows, she knows— _yes, this is not an enemy_. She knows him even as his name comes slowly, and she is crossing the distance with an even stride as the sound of her boots echoes in the chamber. 

Byleth sees the grip on his lance tighten, the weapon seeming like the only thing that is keeping him upright. She knows before he lifts his face that five years have not been kind to him, that he is haggard and wounded, possibly beyond repair. 

When he does lift his face, cheeks splattered with blood, a patch of black covering one of his blue, blue eyes, his gaze so bleary and unseeing…it takes a minute for Byleth to place the emotion welling up inside of her. It's a quieter form of what she felt as she held her father's cooling body; this boy—no, _man_ —is still alive, but oh does he look like death, like he doesn't know how to _be_ alive. 

Just as he looks at her, unsure if she is real, she too gazes back, unsure if he is corporeal. 

She takes a few more steps forward, reaching out a hand, hesitating. She's always dared, but this...perhaps the consequences will be too much. 

“I should have known...” he begins, voice rough from disuse. But in it too is pain, and grief, and a touch of wildness. “That one day...you would be haunting me as well.”

 _Careful_ , she warns herself, but still, she dares. 

Gently, ever so gently, feather-light, she traces his cheek to jaw with her fingertips. He shudders violently at the touch despite the mere whisper of it, the sound escaping him caught between a keen and growl.

“Dimitri,” Byleth says, her voice coming out like a sigh, a whisper. Perhaps a prayer. 

He looks at her with both puzzlement and wonder, as if he cannot fathom why sound should be coming from her lips. 

“You...” he says, darkness and bitterness and guilt eclipsing the brief, _so brief_ light in his eye, “What must I do to be rid of you? I will kill that woman, I swear it! Do not look upon me with scorn in your eyes!”

She doesn't know what to say—she's never been good at expressing, but Dimitri has never been one to mistake what she _can_ express. It's not scorn, but pity, and the fact that he mistakes—misinterprets—it...she realizes he's not seeing her, not truly. 

“A wish for a world where no one is ever unjustly taken from us...” she sighs, her soft voice an echo of a distant memory, of regret. “Ah, Dimitri. How many have been taken from you?” 

He stares, truly stares, his gaze sharpening. She looks upon him, her fingers still lingering on his jaw; she traces backwards this time, jaw to cheek, then upwards to brush his shaggy bangs from the patch on his right eye with her fingertips.

“It can't be...” he says hoarsely, and for a moment he looks desperate and afraid to hope. “ _You're alive....?!_ ”

“Everything will be okay,” she murmurs, because she wants to believe it, but his face shutters closed, what could have surfaced lost underneath the dark. 

“Hmph. If that's the case, that can only mean you are another Imperial spy. Did you come here to kill me?” he says, and when she doesn't reply—“ _Answer the question_.”

He spits out the words like a challenge, growling and angry and ready to attack. But she does not obey, and stares one of her long, unsettling stares, and something, _something_ in him backs down, just a little, just enough. 

“Of course not,” she finally says, and he groans like her refusal hurts him, like he wishes she _were_ here to end him.

He brushes past her—close enough that he just grazes her shoulder, far enough that she could consider the contact her imagination if she wanted to. But she stops him when she speaks again. 

“I'm glad you're safe,” she says, her voice soft.

There is a long, heavy pause.

“Am I?” he asks, and Byleth—oh, she _hurts_ , in that internal phantom way, and she feels the trace of a tear roll down her cheek but doesn’t know if it is physical or imagined. She cried when her father died but this man is alive—and yet it hurts just the same.

“Dimitri,” she says, lifting her hand once more, but he sees the movement and whirls, eye wild.

“Don't touch me!” he all but howls, but Byleth's hand freezes where it is.

“I won't,” she says evenly, “But sit with me.”

“No,” he growls, but he makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, and he cannot look away.

“ _Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd_ ,” she says, and he flinches at the use of his full name, his royal name. 

He doesn't move even as he bristles, but she finds that a more positive indication than not. Her vision goes blurry for a second though, and she sways a little, but she steps forward to stabilize herself.

“Stay a minute,” she says faintly, like she's asking him to stay after class to discuss something, as she did with her students in the past. She tilts, and he sees his arm fly out of his cloak to catch her, and her last thought before she blacks out yet again is that there are some things that do not change after all. 

.

He's there when she swims back up to consciousness, the sun setting red and gold. She finds that she's tucked sort-of by his side, not touching, but near enough to, so that part of his voluminous cloak is draped over her. He's sitting like when she first found him—hunched over, hand gripping his lance, head cowed. But she's here now, next to him. 

Blearily, she unfurls her hand, the back of her finger resting lightly against his knee. After a moment, he shifts, moving just a breadth away. She closes that distance as well. 

“What do you think you're doing?” he says, voice rumbling low. 

“What have you been doing for the past five years?” she murmurs instead.

“I have been dead, more or less,” he counters easily, flatly. There is a silence before he speaks again, the words rushing out of him, tinted with anger and accusation, but also—disbelief, still. “And you? Where were you?”

Byleth sighs.

“I don't know,” she whispers, trying to reach for splinters of memory. “There was—the dragon, and the canyon...I...think I screamed.”

Dimitri goes rigid. She touches her throat lightly, as if she can't believe she did such a thing. 

“And then...there was only...the darkness, for a long time.”

“Yes,” he says, and she understands it's not because he's corroborating her story. 

“Eventually...Sothis was there...” she continues, “And then she wasn't. And I came here, and you were here...and you're still here.”

“That, I am,” he says harshly, bitterly. If the use of the Goddess' name startles him, it's overshadowed by other emotions. 

“And I'm here too,” Byleth says. 

A pause.

“That, you are,” Dimitri responds, less tightly. 

She looks up at him, but he refuses to meet her eyes again, his hair shadowing his expression. 

“Dimitri,” she sighs, sleep claiming her once more, “Dimitri.”

He waits until her breathing slows again and he knows she's asleep. He hovers a hand over her cheek, struck by how big his hand is in comparison. He could kill her so easily, right now. It's in his crest, his blood. 

For once, he doesn't want to; the ghosts, right now, are silent. 

“Hello, Professor,” he says quietly, the greeting sounding—almost normal, like how he used to greet her around the monastery. “It's been—too long.” 

He's not the same, can never return to the boy she likely remembers, especially if she hasn't experienced anything of the past five years. He doesn't know how to tell her—anything. Not that he saw her fall and heard that piercing, echoing scream of hers that day, five years ago, and one final, final thread in him snapped as a roar burst out of him when he reached out as if he could save her. Not that in a distant, distant place in him, he'd hoped she was alive somehow, because her ghost was not among the usual chorus—though this was something he hadn't quite realized himself until she appeared again, and when she did, in thinking that she had finally perished if he was able to see her again, he didn't know another part of him could wither. 

Dimitri stares as she sleeps, unable to parse what it is he feels about her presence here, amongst everything that's happened. If she cannot reconcile what he's become, then nor can he reconcile how she hasn't changed. She doesn't fit in, _cannot_ fit in in the blight that is his current existence. 

He won't, then. He'll leave her be, and she can do what she will, as she as always done. It doesn't, and won't, matter; she is merely someone he used to know.

He moves, intending to get up, but she curls in her sleep, breaching the remains of distance, her forehead pressed lightly against his leg. 

Dimtri is frozen. It would be so easy to move, so, so easy.

Things have never been _easy_ with the Professor. 

In the end, he stays, cloak draped over her form, watching the sun set, listening to her breathing into the night. 

He's gone in the morning, just minutes before she opens her eyes, the warmth of his body and cloak still on her skin. 

.

When she'd first arrived at the monastery, she had been something of a—ghostly presence. A trained mercenary, indeed, but many thought she could have found occupation as an assassin. Deathly silent in her movements, utterly quick and efficient in her fighting, preternaturally calm and blank. But as more time went by, and as she grew more accustomed to the lifestyle at Garreg Mach and teaching, the Blue Lions especially were privy to the changes in their professor as her main class. Byleth Eisner became more solid, more human to them over the course of the year, and well-loved. 

And Dimitri...he had become particularly adept at reading and communicating with their still-enigmatic professor. He had deeply treasured the times they sparred, the times they had tea, the times she'd help him train orphans in swordplay. Like anyone else, he had loved their professor. 

Like anyone else. 

But now—she feels like the same kind of presence that he found her to be in the beginning: silent, and unsettling, even as he knew that she meant no harm, then. He no longer knows how to read her, and, caught between familiarity and finding her a threat (for even if she means no harm, she is still a threat), he finds himself on edge and wary and overall uncomfortable.

Byleth follows where he goes, mostly, though sometimes she wanders off to some other part of the monastery. She fights the “rats” with him, though her style remains clean and efficient even as he brutalizes his prey. He can feel her eyes on him, though she says nothing.

He continues to avoid meeting her eyes, brushing brusquely past her when she attempts to speak to him. Some days, he'll give her curt, sharp responses. Neither treatment seems to deter her; she stays with him.

Sometimes, he comes out of a haze, on trial with a jury of ghosts, to find her back or side pressed against his. Sometimes she is asleep. Sometimes she is not. She lets him move if she is awake, does not protest or hinder him. He can never quite bring himself to move is she is asleep. He never stays if she is awake, only when she is asleep, though he is always gone just moments before she opens her eyes. 

He will not say he appreciates her presence. He doesn't. But she slots herself back into his life neatly. Not seamlessly, not as if she has never left, but neatly. 

The ghosts have grown quieter. 

He no longer knows if that is what he wants, because the ghosts have been his jury since the tragedy. He doesn't know if he can live without them anymore. 

Dimitri does not worry or search for her when she is nowhere to be seen. He does not feel relief if he ends up spotting her in the distance, trailing among the rubble, as if she is trying to place what it used to be. He doesn't care.

But he looks for her, and ends up watching. As if he cannot help himself. 

A part of him still bristles, shouting that she is an enemy, no matter how she acts—the Imperial soldiers, spies, assassins and Kingdom traitors have tried all manner of methods to kill him, from brute force to the finest seductions. The bodies all look the same when he's done with them. 

Yet even after all these years, Byleth is still an exceptional swordswoman, and the Sword of the Creator seems even more comfortable in her grip. Maybe that is why she feels—safe. There have been a handful of times where she's startled him, or moved too quickly, or simply caught him at a bad time, and his lance never leaves his side. But any time he's swung, she's blocked it cleanly—though perhaps sometimes she'd had to dig in her feet to account for his strength. Sometimes she merely just steps out of the way, and he misses entirely. It's one strike, only ever one. 

“You've gotten better,” Byleth says one day, as she lowers her sword. “But not more skilled.”

Dimitri glares. As if there is an art to murder. Once, that comment would have bothered him, or driven him to improve. But not now. 

She offers nothing else. They never spar—Dimitri never accepts, the handful of times she's suggested it. He never apologizes for his lapses; she never expects them, breezing past the moment as if it didn't really matter to her. Perhaps it doesn't, even as he cannot understand why.

“You need to sleep sometime,” Byleth murmurs one night, staring at the bags underneath his eyes, lowering his weapon with her own.

Dimitri blinks several times to get his bearings, then grunts. He didn't sleep well as a student, and since then, he hasn't slept in years. 

Byleth reaches out—he growls, but does not say _don't touch me_ , and so she inches closer. He shudders when her fingertips touch his skin, though perhaps less violently than the first time. 

“I'll guard you,” she says simply, and he barks out a humorless laugh. He opens his mouth to retort, but she levels him with a stare. 

“I'll guard you,” she says again, and motions to a more comfortable-looking piece of rubble to lean against. He won't take a bed, she knows, and so she doesn't bother recommending one. She'll stay where he wants to stay, and it is always the ruined cathedral. 

He stares at her, considering walking away, but she continues to stare back and he eventually relents. He settles down where she'd gestured to, and she nods in satisfaction. She leaves his line of sight momentarily to patrol the immediate perimeter before returning, sitting on another comfortable-enough piece of rubble, her eyes and posture alert. 

Dimitri doesn't know why she's bothering, when he won't even sleep. Even if he does drift for brief moments, the clamoring in his head will not let him rest. Better to not even attempt to sleep, in the end.

Still. He supposes there is nothing else to do right now, without rats scuttling about to be disposed of, and his body would shut down sooner or later if he didn’t perform at least minimal maintenance. He still had things to do. If Byleth wanted to waste her time guarding, then so be it.

He lets his eyes droop, and eventually, after a long, long while, he drifts.

When he wakes, he's so groggy that it takes him quite a while to realize that he isn't in the same position as before he closed his eyes. He's lying down—and not on the hard ground either. 

He closes his eyes again, a mixture of emotions roiling inside of him. He doesn't want to turn and look up to see what he knows he will see, and instead turns his head a little bit so that he can hide his face, hair falling over his eyes. Perhaps she's asleep, and he can pretend like this never happened. 

Unfortunately, he feels her fingers lightly brush his hair back, hand resting on the back of his head. She wouldn't have gone back on her word to take watch.

Her hand is warm, her lap is warm, and Dimitri cannot handle it. He turns the other way, an accusation on his tongue, but it dies the moment he sees her face, gentle and serene. 

She's not staring at him—she's looking forward, still on watch, but does look at him once she feels him turn. She smiles faintly at him, but says nothing, and then returns her gaze forward. 

“It's still early,” she murmurs. “Go back to sleep. I will guard your dreams.”

She strokes his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp, and he is still so, so tired. He sighs, 

“How can you do that?” he mutters, though it comes out less cutting than intended. 

“I'm here,” she says simply, and he sighs again.

“Yes. You are.”

She murmurs something else but he cannot make it out, already slipping back under.

He doesn't dream. 

She's still there in the morning when he wakes. Dimitri rises as quickly as he can, and she also gets up from her position to stretch. Neither say anything about what occurred; Byleth yawns, and then curls up on the ground again. 

“Clear,” she informs him, her eyes already drooping. 

He stares at her. After a moment, he takes off his cloak, wrapping her in it, her head pillowed by the fur around its collar. He sees her smile faintly, but she's already asleep before a thank you can leave her lips.

He prefers it that way. 

Dimitri is no guardian of dreams, but he stays as she sleeps, as he always does, and leaves just before she wakes, as he always does. 

.

Sometimes, he truly loses himself in the heat of battle.

There are none around the monastery that can give him any challenge—thieves, bandits, Imperial soldiers and spies, they're all the same as he fells one after another. He pays no mind to Byleth when she joins him for the hunts; she knows well enough to stay out of his way. When he starts, he only knows the heat of bloodlust, and rage. 

He's grown numb to the corpses he creates; he no longer looks at their faces. But it's never satisfying, after the battle; he always feels cold, empty, the blood stiffening his body as it dries. 

Dimitri doesn't know which the worse state to be in is, honestly. He's never had to think about it before, but now Byleth is here, _Professor_ is here, and thus the paradigm changes. 

Stubbornly, he clings to what he knows. 

He lets his mind go blank during the next wave of Imperial soldiers, cutting down any moving body he sees. He loses track of time—surely there hadn't been that many, but his sense of numbers have been skewed over the years as well. Ten, fifty, one hundred—how many is too many enemies to face? They're all weak, so weak, too weak for this world. 

_But so are you_ , the ghosts whisper. _After all, you let us die. You let your friends die. You were too soft a prince to be king, and now...now what? What can you possibly be the ruler of?_

“ _Be quiet!”_ He hisses, swinging his lance, “I vowed I would bring you her head! I will do it if it is the last thing I do! I will not fall until then!”

 _Dimitri,_ they moan. _Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri. Avenge us. Avenge us._

“Dimitri,” a voice calls. “Come back to me.” 

The ring of metal against metal snaps him back to attention, and as the haze of battle lifts, he realizes that it's Byleth in front of him, the Sword of the Creator in its whip form wrapped around his lance. 

“Professor?” he questions, his voice like that of a child. Confused, shaking, high-pitched. 

“Welcome back,” she murmurs, tugging her sword, and thus the lance from his grip.

He lets it go. She catches it before it clatters to the ground, untangling and sheathing her blade to carry his weapon. She reaches out a hand to grab his, but hesitates. He stares at her extended hand blankly, numb, and she wraps her fingers gently around his arm instead, giving it a light tug. 

He complies. He remembers nothing after that, only truly coming back into his body when he realizes Byleth is scrubbing his hair vigorously with her nails. They're in the baths, only his chest bare, but the whole of him drenched in warm water. 

He...doesn't know what to ask. _Where are we, what are we doing, what happened_ —he can figure out the answers to all of these with a little thought. So he stays quiet, and allows Byleth her ministrations. It's actually a little bit painful as she scrubs, but not unwelcome. She holds a hand over his eyes as she dumps water over his head to rinse, and he sees the water run red, then red again. She keeping pouring until it runs clear. 

“Soak,” she says, and he turns his attention to the steaming bath. He looks at her, and she stares back impassively, holding out a towel. 

He understands that she means to stay, and tries to form words as he takes the towel. He is a little embarrassed, even now, but she turns, and he hesitates for a moment before stripping out of the remainder of his sopping clothes, wrapping the towel around his hips, and sinking into the water. She turns back to face him after she hears the water still again, and nods in satisfaction. 

It's silent, save for the occasional drip or splash of water, and it takes a while before he begins to feel flushed from the steam and heat. He makes to get out, and Byleth offers him another towel, as well as monk robes. He raises an eyebrow, but she shrugs, and leaves him to change. 

His cloak still hangs in the changing room, and he throws that on over the robe before walking out. 

Byleth is nowhere in sight, but he makes his way to the cathedral and finds her sitting on the pews in front. His wet clothes have been wrung out and draped over the pews on the other side, drying. His armor too rests in a neat pile.

She turns and tilts her head at him when she hears him approaching, gesturing for him to come closer. He does. She motions of him to sit, and instead he sits on the floor at her feet, cloak pooling around him. She smiles a wry smile, then pulls his head into her lap, running her hands through his damp hair. 

He closes his eyes, unable to protest; after the bath, he feels dislodged and exhausted. He lets out a deep, burdened sigh, and she pats his head.

“What have you been doing for the past five years?” she asks, again. 

“I have been dead, more or less,” he responds, again, though the words sound simply tired this time. 

“And what does that mean?”

He doesn't answer right away, focusing instead on her fingers through his hair. 

“Dedue snuck me out of the prisons,” he says eventually, “And paid for it with his life.”

“...And the others?”

“I've been on the run. The Empire reaches far, too far. They can only be dead.”

There's another silence between them.

“Why did you come here?” Dimitri asks.

“It was the only place I could go,” Byleth says. Her words are matter of fact—because truly, where else would she have gone? She had no home, no attachments to any place as a mercenary, and with Jeralt gone...there was never any other option. “And you? Why was it that I found you here?”

“It was the only place I could go,” Dimitri says too. It wasn't—sentimentality, just a bleak hopelessness that had him moving back towards the monastery. A familiar place, away from the Empire and its prisons, where he could plan and think, at least for a little while. 

Byleth hums. 

“Professor,” Dimitri says, sounding very much like the boy he used to be.

“Hm?”

“Leave.”

She lets out a soft laugh, and despite it all, a vague sort of warmth blooms in him at the sound. 

“No,” she says, so simply. “Sleep, Dimitri.”

It takes a while, but he obeys. 

.

_“PROFESSOR!”_

_He watches in horror as Solon completes his spell and Byleth is swallowed up into the darkness. There is silence, and the Professor is no longer there, and Dimitri—he cannot articulate what it is welling up inside him. The rest of his classmates catch up to him, Dedue and Felix both catching sight of his face, and he doesn't know what it is they see there. Dedue is impassive as always, but his eyes widen just a fraction, and Felix's eyes also go wide, then narrow, a scowl creasing his face as he turns back to Solon._

_Dimitri's knuckles are white as they grip his lance, eyes still trained towards the sky._

_He's shaking._

_“Boar!” Felix barks, grabbing his shoulder, and flinches almost imperceptibly as Dimitri turns to him, eyes still blown wide with shock. “Pull yourself together! We still have enemies to fight!”_

_“Enemies,” Dimitri echoes, hollow, “Yes.”_

_Felix hisses, shoving his prince as he tears his hand away, but Dimitri doesn't feel a thing._

_He doesn't recall actually fighting, just vaguely remembers swinging his blade, the weapon becoming slick with blood. He doesn't know how much time passes before Annette's shriek pierces the air._

_“Everyone! Look!”_

_He looks. The sky splits open, light rendering the sky red, and he waits with bated breath as a hand reaches out of the tear, and then slowly, Byleth steps out of the sky, sword burning bright in her hand, eyes and hair glowing Goddess-green._

_Dimitri, practically blinded yet unable to turn his gaze away, wonders if this is what salvation feels like._

_It's almost the same when she appears again, five years later, but Dimitri knows—there's no saving him, now._

_“Forgotten already, your highness?” Glenn laughs, “Don't you remember my body, at your feet? How cold I was in your hands?”_

_“My son,” his father calls, “Dimitri—you must not let them get away with this.”_

_“Oh, my son, my son,” his mother weeps, “Bring me her head—only then can I rest.”_

“Please,” he begs, “I've made my promises, it was my fault, and I am sorry for it—”

“It was not your fault,” comes the whisper of light.

“It was,” he insists, “I was there, I could have saved them—”

“You could not have.”

He shudders.

“ _Weak,_ because I was weak—”

“No. Because it was out of your control. You were a boy. How could you have known? What could you have done?”

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry_ —”

“I forgive you, if it is truly mine you're seeking.” the light says. “Peace. I'm here.”

He weeps, apologies and sins incoherent on his tongue.

Byleth cradles his head and lets him confess.

.

He is wary the next morning when they finally cross paths again, back in his black armor with his lance tight in his hand. 

He had awoken with his head still in her lap, her hands still on his cheeks. She had been snoozing lightly, and woke when he moved to look up at her; the two had gazed at each other sleepily for a moment before Dimitri pulled away and left without another word. Byleth let him go, yawning and stretching as she rose from the pew, her first order of a business a bath of her own.

She makes no comment, of course, when they reconvene. He's at least partially back to his snappish self, but—his gaze lingers, when he speaks rudely, as if he is self-conscious of the disrespect. 

It amuses her, a little, to see the difference, even as it flickers in and out in the coming days. There are still good and bad and worse days, where he ranges from that awareness of his behavior to uncontrolled anguished raving and violence, but. _But._ There's a brink, now, which he can come back to, no matter how tenuous and fragile it is at the moment. 

But he retreats again, when they finally confront the root of the infestation of bandits and thieves, and one by one the rest of the Blue Lions house makes their appearance, five years older. There's no time for a proper reunion in the midst of battle, but Byleth is pleased, and her former students yell and whoop and laugh when they catch sight of her alongside Dimitri. 

When they finally do get the chance to speak after the battle, Dimitri is gone before she realizes. Felix scoffs, and Gilbert, Ingrid, and Sylvain look at each other worriedly. Mercedes, Annette, and Ashe are too excited to see her to fully take note the change in Dimitri at the moment, Annette hugging her so tightly that Byleth cannot breathe. 

Still, she smiles, and though her former students stare in surprise as they always did at the rarity of the expression, they smile back. Plans are made, the monastery regains life slowly, but quicker than she could have expected. Dimitri sequesters himself back in the cathedral at all hours, and the others take their chances to approach at first before keeping their distance after he lashes out, or cows them with his countenance alone.

With how much they were in each other's company before, since there had been no one else, Byleth feels like she has not seen him in days. She has a new role, with the others looking to her for guidance that they cannot find in Dimitri even as they address him. It feels similar to five years ago, where her role as a professor blended with tactician and commander—but now, she is an adviser to a king, save for an official title. Everyone still calls her “Professor”, unable to shake the habit, or perhaps they too need the familiarity. She hasn't changed at all in these five years.

When she finally does make her way to the cathedral, Felix is there too and pulls her to the side.

“Do something,” he hisses at her, though his eyes are on Dimitri, “I can't bear to see _that creature_ in the state it's in.”

Byleth says nothing, only looks to the prince standing by the ruined altar. 

“He's gotten better at killing,” Felix says, his brows furrowed, “But in doing so, relinquished what little humanity he had.”

It's the Felix way, Byleth knows, to be like this. He's concerned in his own way, for his own reasons, but there is a past between them that she does not know the full extent of that colors it all. The reason why he only calls Dimitri the Boar Prince, and never by name. 

“Such things,” Byleth says after a long moment, as the two of them stare at Dimitri's back, “Are not so easily undone.”

“I know,” Felix says, almost miserably. “But...”

He stares at her, eyes burning, and she inclines her head. 

“I will not move any faster than I have been.”

Felix frowns, but seems to piece some things together. _Have been_ , she says. 

“You found him first,” he says, slowly. This, they all know, but how long ago, they did not think of. 

Byleth shrugs. 

“Neither of us knew the Millennium would be upon us,” she muses. “I am...glad you all came. He will be too, once he...remembers how.”

Felix snorts, and turns away. 

“As you will, then,” he grumbles. 

“As I will,” Byleth agrees, and leaves his side to stand next to Dimitri. 

Felix watches as the Boar Prince turns to her, temper flaring, but she glances at him but for a moment before turning her gaze to the rubble. 

“Go away,” Dimitri still says, but it sounds defeated, somehow.

“No,” Byleth says, and remains where she is. The two of them stand in silence, until Byleth is called elsewhere. 

Sylvain laughs, when Felix recounts this interaction later to his childhood friends. Ingrid smiles. 

“Still weak to the Professor, I see,” Sylvain says, with a grin. “How long do you think they were here alone together?” 

“ _Sylvain_ ,” Ingrid says, slapping him on the arm. He winces. “This is not the time. In any case. It's...reassuring.” 

Felix admits to nothing, but at the very least, he trusts their Professor.

But the Boar is another matter, and always has been. 

.

Byleth makes her decisions and stands by them. She is not afraid of Dimitri, no matter what he has become—she is far more used to being the one that is feared. The mercenaries did not call her Ashen Demon for nothing, sometimes in derision, sometimes in respect, sometimes in awe. Dimitri is called the One-Eyed Demon now, so if the pair of them are demons together, then they are the only ones who can deal with the other and come away relatively unscathed. 

Felix, Sylvain, and Ingrid notice when Dimitri takes his prisoner; the other Blue Lions come at the tail-end of the confrontation. Dimitri's tirade is—difficult to hear; it is difficult to see what he has become, especially to his childhood friends. Felix's head spins, fury and despair warring, and just as he surges forward, he feels a hand on his shoulder before a figure brushes past him.

Byleth casts judgement on Randolph, quickly, mercifully. She takes note of his last words, flicks the blood off of her sword, utterly calm. 

“What...is the meaning of this?” Dimitri seethes, once he processes what just happened, and he does not back down this time when Byleth turns her eyes on him. 

“...I miss you,” she says, just a little wistful, and they all know what goes unsaid.

His face contorts. 

“ _The Dimitri you once knew is dead_. All that remains is the repulsive, blood-stained monster you see before you,” he growls. They stare at each other for a moment before he spits out his next words. “If you do not approve what I've become, _then kill me_. If you insist that you cannot...then I will continue to use you _and_ your friends _until the flesh falls from your bones_.”

Felix mutters _beast_ under his breath; Sylvain and Ingrid watch with pained faces. Annette and Mercedes have tears glistening on their cheeks, and Ashe's eyes are bright with tears as well. 

But Byleth steps closer, steps directly into his space, all but pressed up against him. Though she is nearly a full head shorter, she stares up at him, and the air seems colder than before. It feels as if the world has slowed and there is only Byleth and Dimitri, Dimitri and Byleth, boring holes into each other with their eyes, or maybe it is just Byleth that is doing the boring. 

An eternity seems to pass before a hiss escapes from Dimitri's lips like steam escaping pressure, and he looks away first, severe unhappiness evident on his face. He turns sharply on his heel and leaves, and Byleth watches him go. She waits only a moment before she turns to the rest of her former students.

“We bury the bodies,” she says, her eyes distant but her expression otherwise perfectly normal, and the Blue Lions wait only a moment before following her orders. They know not what, exactly, passed between their Professor and future king, but they are glad to not have been caught between them. 

Night finds Dimitri in the cathedral, as usual. Byleth joins him later, much later, when there is no one to see. It is not because of gossip that comes at the late hour, merely because it is so. 

It is quiet; Dimitri has no pleas for ghosts, tonight. They sit in silence, and the minutes pass; there is less tension than one might expect, only a tremulous, wary thread of something waiting to break. 

“I am a monster,” Dimitri says eventually. His voice is steady, sure. “I do not know why you continue to persist. You saw me today.”

“You are not a monster,” Byleth counters, just as steadily. “So do not think it...excuses you for your...poor decisions.”

Dimitri is silent. 

“I know...why you are as you are,” she continues, haltingly, as she struggles to find the proper words. “And so I hesitate to interfere too much. But know...that I _will_ interfere...as I see fit to.”

“Because you are here,” he says, turning to her, an eyebrow raised.

“Because I am here,” she agrees, width a faint smile. 

He stares at her, breathing in deep to let out an equally deep sigh. They stay there, in the cathedral, with Dimitri facing the ruined altar again, Byleth sitting behind him. 

When morning comes and the castle stirs once more, neither are to be found. 

.

Ailell puts Dimitri in a fouler mood, between the heat and the ambush, and even Byleth suffers from the punishing temperatures. She is conscious of every rivulet of sweat that drips down her skin, and pities those who must wear armor. She hasn't the faintest of how Dimitri is surviving, with his black attire and fur cloak—or maybe his single-minded focus pushes even the heat out of his mind. 

To be fair, once the battle begins, she is no longer thinking of the heat, only how their surroundings affect their troops. They must finish the battle quickly and get out of the Valley of Torment; soldiers from Faeghus especially are not made for the heat. 

Dimitri and Rodrigue reunite, and Byleth watches closely as the prince's eyes gleam with an old light. She knows from experience to not get complacent, and Dimitri's minuscule softening is no exception. 

She is even more on watch during their next battle, where Dedue enters the fray, scarred but very much alive. For a longer moment, Dimitri looks like the boy she once knew, the boy they all once knew, and Byleth almost wants to believe that Dedue's return will be the true catalyst in Dimitri's health. But such things cannot be so easy. She may be far from an expert of the matters of the mind and heart, but she knows danger when she sees it. 

Yet—Byleth ultimately becomes distracted and heartsick, even without a heartbeat; she can imagine Sothis' somber countenance even as she gives logical reasoning as to why Byleth must continue to hold her sword despite it, even against former students who now work for the Empire. 

She makes a decision; she will stop the hearts of her former students herself, so that those who have sided with Faerghus and her and Dimitri don't have to. She can see their pale faces at they recognize familiar faces leading enemy troops, and though something in her keens, it is she who will take the responsibility, it is she who will bear the burden of that weight. As their professor, and friend. 

Still. It is a hard burden to bear, when she looks down at the body of Lorenz Gloucester. _It's been a while, Professor. If this were anywhere but a battlefield, I would offer you tea. I've no choice but to follow the Empire, if I wish to live. I hope you will not think ill of me_ , he'd said. She did not, and how dearly she would have liked to accept his invitation, to spare him from this fate. She allows a moment of grief; nearly all the enemies have been disposed of, and the sounds of the battlefield are only growing quieter. This kill had been...the definitive one, this battle. Her moment of silence does, however, extend longer than she'd expected, caught up in memories—muffled yelling snaps her back to attention, and she runs back to the center of the fortress.

Dedue and Felix parry Dimitri's wild swings, while the rest of the Lions watch with worried eyes. Sylvain and Ingrid are on standby, weapons drawn, though Dedue and Felix are doing well enough to keep him at bay. 

But this is not Dimitri from the training fields, who tempered his strength; no, this is Dimitri unbarred and unseeing, and even Dedue and Felix will not be able to hold up under barrage from his strength. 

“ _You stupid boar_!” Felix seethes, deflecting yet another blow. He growls, noticing his blade beginning to crack. “Get yourself together!”

“Your Highness,” Dedue intones, but not even he seems to be getting through.

Dimitri is speaking, but his words are jumbled and incomprehensible. Byleth blinks, forcing herself out of her previous stupor; the living need her attention. Later, she will brew a cup of Lorenz's favorite tea, and find a vase to put a rose in. 

“Professor!” Annette squeaks, finally noticing her, and several eyes flicker to her. “I—we don't know what happened, the battle ended but he just kept going—”

Byleth doesn't respond; she knows, she's seen this before. She passes Sylvain and Ingrid, who both look at her warily and mutter _be careful_. Like a ghost, she slips past Dedue and Felix, whose eyes widen, but Byleth has become well used to Dimitri's fighting style that he's developed over the years, especially in these states. She doesn't parry his blows; she steps to the side just as he lunges low and then surges forward, wrapping her an arm around his neck, squeezing in an almost-chokehold.

“Dimitri,” she murmurs directly into his ear, lips pressed against his skin. “It's over.”

He goes rigid, though his knuckles are white on his lance. She continues to murmurs his name into his ear, and it is a long, longer moment before he drops his weapon and falls to his knees. Byleth continues to hold him, bringing her other arm up to hug him properly, and Dimitri lets out a noise between a sob and a scream as he covers his eyes with his hand. 

Byleth tightens her hold and buries her face in his shoulder. 

“We have to keep moving,” she says, muffled by the fur of his cloak, and turns her head to his ear and repeats her words. She's tired, very tired. 

“Yes,” Dimitri says, voice rough, “We do.”

She untangles herself from the prince, helps haul him up. The others are hovering nearby, unsure where or if they can offer their help. Byleth sweeps her gaze over them, and feels a desperate fondness for these people. 

“Let's return,” she says, her tone exhausted. 

The Blue Lions offer her tentative smiles or nods of acknowledgement and comply, trailing after her and their ragged prince with their open hands and hearts. 

.

Byleth leads Dimitri away upon return to the monastery, and the Blue Lions watch them go. Neither show up for dinner—Byleth will usually eat with the Lions, and ever so rarely she coaxes Dimitri to the dining hall when there are less people around—and when night falls and both are still nowhere to be seen, the Lions go looking. 

“You think they're in one of their rooms?” Sylvain suggests, waggling his eyebrow, hands behind his head as he swivels to and fro.

He dodges a swing from Ingrid, but she catches him on the return, and he lets out a yelp of pain. 

Felix's frown deepens. 

“The Boar is hardly in a state to do anything but harm,” Felix scowls, and Sylvain sobers, putting his arms down. 

Dedue rumbles low in his throat, but even he cannot counter the potential consequences of Dimitri's...instability. 

“I think the Professor will be fine,” Mercedes says serenely, a faint smile on her lips. “But I think we should still make one more round before we turn in for the night.”

“It's odd that they're not in the cathedral,” Ashe muses. “His Highness is almost always there.”

“I think we should check that again first,” Annette declares. “They could have left the monastery earlier. Or maybe we just keep missing them?”

“Let's go, then,” Ingrid agrees. “But let us take the side entrance—we missed the left terrace, I think.”

So they go, the whole retinue silent as they wind around the side and up the stairs to the cathedral. 

It becomes evident that at least Dimitri is there now, his voice echoing in the open space, tone high and crazed and—broken. The Lions look at each other, moving as quietly as possible as they peek into the cathedral, fearing what they might find. 

But their fears are unfounded.

Byleth is sitting on one of the stones near the rubble, her hair almost glowing in the dim lighting of the remaining sconces. In her lap she cradles Dimitri's head, who is screaming, or sobbing, entreaties into her hands; her expression as she looks down at him is so tender it burns. She threads her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp.

“You cannot stay here,” Dimitri gasps, as if he is choking on his own tears, “You've seen what I can do—”

“I will stay,” Byleth says, and she tilts his face up with both hands. “With you.”

“Leave,” he says, sounding less like a threat and more like an entreaty. 

“No,” she says. 

“ _Leave!_ ” he screams, surging to his feet and away from her, chest heaving. 

She stares up at him and he stares back, and after a moment, Byleth lifts up her hands, as if to say _come back_.

“Dimitri,” she says, softly. “Are you afraid of me?”

He hesitates before answering. It is a long moment before he sinks back to his knees, and Byleth lowers her hands with him. Still he does not take them. 

“No,” he says tiredly. Even as her light burns, even as he tells her to leave. It's not fear that she strikes in him every time she counters him. 

She smiles.

“Nor I, you,” she says. “Come.” 

Slowly, he takes her hands, then lowers his head back into them. 

“I cannot win against you,” he murmurs. 

She strokes his cheek with her thumb. 

“You can, in other fields,” she hums. “But in this, I will not allow.”

Dimitri lets out a choked laugh, and the two fall into silence, staying so still they could be a painting. 

The rest of the Blue Lion House take a moment before they peel away from the side of the walls of the cathedral, only daring to speak when they are a safe distance away. 

“Well, that was certainly something to see,” Sylvain says, his tone as suggestive as ever, but his expression belies him. He's far more pensive, his eyes far softer than anyone's ever seen them. 

“The Professor will be okay,” Mercedes says again, smiling. “And...eventually, Dimitri will be too.” 

“I agree,” Dedue says quietly. 

“But let's offer our support where we can!” Annette says, pumping her fists. “After all—even the Professor needs help sometimes. If we can't exactly help with His Highness...we can at least help the Professor help him, right?”

“That's right!” Ashe nods decisively. “Which means, we should make sure they eat tomorrow morning, if they skipped dinner tonight.”

The others begin to discuss plans on what they can do, while Sylvain and Ingrid look to Felix. He meets both of their gazes then scowls, crossing his arms. 

“It's pathetic, to see him like that,” he says, looking away. “And it shouldn't be the Professor's responsibility to recreate a man from the pieces he's made of himself.”

And yet, he'd made the request of her as well. Because he knows that she's the only one capable of it, even as it is unfair.

“Poetic,” Sylvain comments, and Felix glares. 

“Perhaps not,” Ingrid concedes, “But...nor is our Professor a fool. She made the choice because she wanted to.”

Felix says nothing. He knows. After a moment, he lets out a deep sigh. Sylvain and Ingrid smile at him, which he ignores. Very little gets past childhood friends, anymore. 

The next morning, breakfast is brought to Byleth's room with an extra plate made up for Dimitri, and she greets them with slow blinks. 

“Let us know what we can do, Professor!” Annette says, determined.

“Anything at all,” Ashe adds earnestly.

Byleth blinks at them a few more times before her lips quirk up into a slight smile. 

“Thank you,” she says.

For the moment, everything seems like it will be okay. 

.

Rodrigue dies.

They watch Dimitri break down again on the battlefield as he holds the man in his arms. The battle against Claude and then Edelgard had not been easy, either physically or mentally. When he finally faces the Emperor, the madness within him flares up again as he issues his threats upon her retreat. But the young soldier girl and her knife and Rodrigue blindsides all of them, including Dimitri, and he nearly becomes undone again.

But it's different, now, than when he escaped from the Empire's prisons all alone.

Byleth kills the girl with some regret; she thinks she knows who she might be, but—Byleth too has things to protect, and she is the more skilled of the two of them. Afterwards, she drops to her knees in front of Dimitri as he sits shell-shocked, cupping his face and bringing her own near, forcing him to look at her until he focuses on her—her eyes, her hair, her hands, her scent. 

“Are you with me?” she says, breath warm, “If only for the moment?”

Numb, he nods. 

“We bury him,” she says, her eyes kind but hard, “And then we must leave. Do you understand?”

He nods again. She wipes away the tears that he didn’t realize are sliding down his cheeks and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

When she gets to her feet and turns, she sees Felix first, Sylvain and Ingrid beside him. Dedue, Ashe, Mercedes, and Annette are behind them.

“We bury him,” Felix echoes, his face blank. He does not look at Dimitri, nor does Dimitri look at him. 

Other soldiers come forward who want to help bury a man they admired, a hero of the land. When the deed is done, Dimitri whirls away without a word to anyone, and Byleth glances at him, and then to Felix, who is already looking at her.

“Go,” he says, and he sounds—exhausted.

There is a moment where Byleth doesn't move, then closes the distance to wrap her arms around Felix, who goes still in her embrace. He pats her back awkwardly, and the side of his lip quirks up at this uncharacteristic display from their Professor. This was treatment reserved for Dimitri. 

“I'm not the one who needs you,” he says, not unkindly. 

She pulls away, stares into his dark eyes. 

“Perhaps not. But you have me, nonetheless. All of you.”

She looks up, nods to the rest of her team, then takes off after Dimitri. 

Sylvain and Ingrid move into the space Byleth had occupied, each putting an arm around Felix. He sighs again, trying halfheartedly to push them away, but they press in even more until he finally leans into them. 

Annette sings, Mercedes prays, Dedue and Ashe stand solemnly in respect.

“You're all idiots,” Felix grumbles, and they say nothing. There's no bite to it at all. But a few moments later, so quietly they almost miss it, he speaks again. “Thank you.”

They don't even tease him, merely stand in the rain for a moment longer, until Annette's voice is drowned out by the downpour. 

.

They fight in the rain. 

“You cannot go to Enbarr,” Byleth says, tone hard, as she steps out in front of him, and she can see the raging turmoil in Dimitri's eye, the tension without release thrumming in every muscle. 

“ _Get out of my way_. Death is the end, Professor, and the burdens of hatred and regret...they fall on the shoulders of those left behind. I must continue down this path—I already told you as much. It is far too late to stop.”

“You're wrong.”

His lips quirk up into a bitter, scathing smile. 

“Do not waste your breath with some _nonsense_ about how I should move on with my life for their sake. That is merely the logic of the living. _It's meaningless_.”

Byleth stares at him and her lips thin. She cannot let him go, will not let him go, and that, at the very least, is not meaningless. 

She puts a hand on her sword, tilting her head in question, then her chin up in challenge, and Dimitri blinks once before something like relief washes over his face as he spins his lance and strikes. He is lost, lost again, and he doesn't know what to do, but fighting—fighting is familiar, too much so. 

Byleth is skilled with several weapons and far stronger than her frame suggests, but Dimitri's strength has no equal. And so she applies tactics that she hasn't needed to use in a long, long time—so-called dirty tactics. She flings mud into his face and trips him into it, trying to hold him there, but he squirms out of her slimy grip and lunges, the two of them rolling once, twice, before Byleth knees him in the stomach. He grunts and she springs away, releasing the bladed whip of her sword. Dimitri deflects it with a well-timed flick of his lance, having seen the move often enough, and catches it with his other hand, fingers protected by his gauntlets though its sharpness cuts into even them. He pulls, and Byleth narrows her eyes as she retracts the whip, bringing him closer, and lifts her leg to kick him. She aims true, but doesn't pull away fast enough, and he grabs her leg and _throws_ her. She skids in the mud, planting her sword in the ground to stop herself, and leaps up again, expression still impassive. 

His eye flickers warily as he opens and closes his fist, as if he can't quite believe what he'd done. He spins his lance again and grips it more tightly in anticipation of her next move. She spins her own sword, adjusting her grip, and walks forward slowly, keeping her eyes trained on him. 

Dimitri blinks—and suddenly she's gone, flashing before him, and the next moment he's flat on his back. He makes to get up, only to feel a slight pressure insisting he stay down, and when he finally manages to open his eyes and catch the breath that's been knocked out of him, he sees Byleth with a foot on his chest and the tip of her sword hovering under his chin.

When he looks up at her, she touches the blade to his skin and tilts his chin up, just a little, and smiles, just a little. 

“You cannot go to Enbarr,” she says again, with the tone of one who expects to be obeyed, and he almost laughs.

“Not like this, certainly,” he agrees, groaning. 

She steps off, and Dimitri half-rises from the ground, using his lance as support. He hurts, between whatever move Byleth had just used, and the recent stab wound from that young girl. She hadn't gone easy on him despite it, and the realization warms him, oddly enough. 

“Tell me, Professor, since you seem to have all the answers,” Dimitri says after a moment, staring at the mud. “Those who died with lingering regret...they will not loose their hold on me so easily. Please, tell me...how do I silence their desperate pleas? How do I save them? Ever since that day nine years ago...I have only lived to avenge the fallen. Even my time at the Officer's Academy was all so I could secure my revenge and clear away the regret of the dead. It was the only thing that kept me alive...my only reason to keep moving forward...”

Byleth drops to her knees, but he does not lift his head, rivulets of water dripping down his hair and his face. 

“You've suffered enough, Dimitri.”

Her voice is soft and sad, but she says them like a benediction. 

“But then who...or what...should I live for?”

There's a pause before she speaks again. 

“...For what you believe in.”

His head jerks up, his eye swimming with anguish and uncertainty, question ready on his lips. But his breath catches before he can speak; Byleth is staring at him with such intensity that it awes him. 

“For a world where no one is ever unjustly taken from us,” she continues. “For the justice of Duscur. For the man you wanted— _want_ —to be. There are things you believed in and still believe…you need only remember.”

Dimitri gapes at her as she speaks, the each word sinking into him slowly. Byleth smiles at him, tender and sweet, and she puts her hands to his cheeks.

“What I believe in...Rodrigue said the same thing. But is it possible? I am a murderous _monster_. My hands are stained red. Could one such as I truly hope for such a life? As the sole survivor of that day do I...do I have the right to live for myself?”

She touches her forehead to his.

“Come forward with me, Dimitri,” she whispers, her lips just barely brushing his as she speaks.

Hope flares, and he leans into her hands, covering them with his own, sighing. He’s not sure if he knows how to live for himself, not yet. But he thinks that there are some things he might _want_ to live for.

“Your hands are so warm...have they always been?”

Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. After another moment, he tucks his head into the crook of her neck and weeps. But this time, unlike previous times, he feels just a little bit lighter, and his future just a little bit clearer. 

She murmurs something once, then twice, but both are lost in the sound of the rain and his sobs. 

.

The rest of the Blue Lions minus Felix are waiting when they return to the monastery, watching with slight smiles as they watch Dimitri trail behind Byleth like a drowned puppy. 

Mercedes and Annette wait until they're closer to exclaim upon their sorry state, while Sylvain starts to laugh.

“What the hell were you doing out there? Mud wrestling?” he says, and Byleth shrugs.

“Something like that,” she says, slicking mud off of her arm. “We need a bath.”

“Together?” Sylvain follows up, waggling his eyebrows.

Byleth folds her arms into her signature thinking pose.

“It would be more efficient that way,” she concedes, and several of them choke.

Dimitri, to their surprise, flushes to the tips of his ears and looks away. 

Sylvain _howls_. 

“It sure would, Professor,” he says, “So why don't you and His Highness—”

“ _THAT_ ,” Dimitri and Ingrid say loudly at the same time, and Dimitri sputters a little before holding up his hand to motion for Ingrid to continue speaking in his stead.

Amusement mixes with the indignation on her face, because right now, he's very much the Dimitri they're all familiar with, and it's a pleasure to see.

“That won't be necessary,” Ingrid continues, “We may be low on supplies, but water we have plenty of. And there's soapwort enough to go around if you aren't picky.”

“What a shame, eh Your Highness?” Sylvain snickers, putting an arm around Dimitri, not even caring about the mud. “Anyway, it's good to see you back.”

It's a casual declaration, and one that Dimitri can't quite process yet, but he's whisked away to the baths by Dedue and Sylvain and saved from responding. Ashe opts to make for the kitchens instead, to prepare something for Dimitri and Byleth to eat afterwards. The girls lead Byleth away with offers to help her wash up, and she smiles bemusedly and allows them their ministrations. 

“Thank you, Professor,” Ingrid says, as she works at Byleth's scalp with her nails.

Byleth hums, and does not accept nor deny the gratitude. Ingrid understands, but feels the gratitude nonetheless. 

“He needs the rest of you too,” Byleth says after a long moment, her voice sleepy. The girls are utterly spoiling her, with Ingrid at her hair, Annette working on her nails, and Mercedes massaging her face and shoulders. This has to be unfair, somehow. 

“We know,” Annette smiles. “But Professor, you're like...I don't think it's an exaggeration to say he needs you the most.”

“You're his heart and soul,” Mercedes says, and there's a pause. “And that's as dangerous as it is beautiful.” 

The girls are silent for a moment at this truth, and Byleth considers Mercedes' words. 

“I don't know if we know how to live any other way,” she says, distantly. “But if that is my place, then I will claim it.”

Ingrid, Annette, and Mercedes smile.

“We're very lucky to have you, Professor,” Mercedes says, and the other two murmur in agreement.

A faint smiles curves Byleth's lips.

“I think I'm the one lucky to have all of you,” she says quietly. 

She's practically asleep when they rinse her off the second time and put her in a soft tunic and skirt while her clothes are being cleaned. Mercedes seats her for a bit and does something with her hair while she dozes.

Sylvain is waiting outside with a salacious smile, but holds up his hands after Ingrid glares and makes a sharp gesture. 

“I'm just here to say that Dedue has brought His Highness to the dining hall, if you care to join him.”

The way he says it suggests that this is Sylvain's personal report, as opposed to being requested to do it. Byleth nods, and he turns to leave, but she stops him.

“Wait.”

He turns, and Byleth looks between him and Ingrid.

“Felix?”

Sylvain's eyes go a little glassy, and Ingrid's lips flatten, both of their postures going stiff.

“It’ll take some time, but he’ll be okay,” Sylvain says, his voice an awkward mix of airiness and seriousness, as if he himself doesn’t know how he wants to deliver the line.

Byleth stares at him until he sighs.

“Felix and his father have always had a complicated relationship since Glenn died,” he explains slowly. “And…his relationship with His Highness is the same.”

“He needs time alone for now,” Ingrid says. “But…you’ll probably see him in the training yard again soon. The sword has always been how he’s worked through things, after...everything.”

Byleth nods, and lets the matter rest for now. 

Sylvain decides to join them as they go to the dining hall, joking about how he's with a whole entourage of beautiful ladies, but none of them rise to the bait and he complains at the lack of reaction. 

The dining hall is empty save for them; Dimitri is sitting quietly with his meal as Ashe talks about the dish he prepared with Dedue. Byleth pauses at the doorway before joining them, observing. Though subdued, Dimitri looks...better. His hair is tied back, and without the cloak and armor, dressed in a loose shirt and breeches, he looks more boyish.

He looks up and catches sight of her, and his face blooms into a tentative and shy smile. 

She smiles back, and joins them at the table. The rest of the Blue Lions exchanges looks all around them; Sylvain mimes being blinded by the light when neither Dimitri nor Byleth are looking, and Ashe and Annette muffle a laugh while Mercedes titters. Even Dedue cracks a smile. 

When the two have eaten enough to satisfy their watchers, the rest of the Blue Lions take their leave, late into the night it is. Dimitri and Byleth stay behind for a moment longer, the silence stretching between them as they regard each other.

“I...must talk to Felix,” Dimitri says, and Byleth nods. 

“Then I will be in the training room for a whie,” she says, and Dimitri nods back.

There's nothing else to say, after that. Dimitri goes, Byleth goes, and though it is late already, there is still much of the night left.

.

(Felix lets Dimitri in, if only to get a better look at him. He crosses his arms and scoffs after a few minutes of scrutiny, even though he's satisfied with what he sees. 

“So a wild boar has regained some of its senses,” Felix says, his brown eyes hard. “What now?”

“Tomorrow I will make the announcement that we will march to Fhirdiad, to reclaim the capital,” Dimitri says, unwavering. 

Felix grunts. 

The two stand in silence, and Dimitri opens his mouth—

“I'm s—”

“ _Don't.”_

He shuts it. There's a pause.

“Words are not enough. But I'm afraid I have little else to offer.”

Felix stares at him, face unreadable. 

“I'm not after words. I'm after actions. Glenn died for you. My father died for you. They both died for what they believed in, and that was you, and the kingdom that you'd rule. So show me what you can do... _Dimitri._ ”

The use of his name isn't lost on him, even as the mention of Glenn and Rodrigue pain him. Since Duscur, Felix hasn't called him as such, and the fact that he is doing so now...

Dimitri will not forsake this show of...well. He's not entirely sure. It's something like trust, or confidence, or faith, but he knows that the relationship between him and Felix has changed since their childhood, and it will never return to what it was. But...they're moving forward. Felix is giving him a chance. 

“Of course,” Dimitri says. “It is my every intention to do so.” 

The two stare at each other in silence, before Felix brushes by him.

“Now get out,” he says, even though he's out the door himself.

Dimitri calls after him before he can get too far.

“The Professor said she'd be waiting in the training rooms for a while,” he says, and Felix stops and turns back to him.

“You owe that woman far more than just your life,” he says. 

“I know,” Dimitri replies. 

Felix smiles wryly, then turns on his heel and walks away. 

Dimitri closes Felix's door for him, and settles into his own room for the first time since his arrival to the monastery.)

.

Byleth turns and inclines her head in greeting when she hears Felix walk in. He doesn't return it, walking straight to the rack of training weapons, He deliberates a little; over the years, he's learned how to use axes, bows, and his fists in addition to mastering the sword. Byleth too is skilled in all of those, and so he has quite the range to work with, now. 

But in the end it's an easy choice; he picks up a sword, and so does Byleth, and the match begins without so much a warning. 

Felix picking up the sword was warning enough.

She drives him hard, and he meets the challenge she sets with enthusiasm. Her skills had been a bit rusty, in the beginning; the rest of them had five years of more consistent training on her after all, but she had caught up quickly enough; she had already been rather exceptional in her fighting prowess back then. Still their Professor, after all this time. 

Felix uses one combat art after another, and she counters them with ones of her own. It's always been a pleasure to fight against her; he's had a handful of wins since his student days, but she too is continuously improving. She may no longer be a mercenary, but the life of one cannot be discarded so easily; she hasn't given up her own training, and with the war...there's no shortage of actual fighting, either. 

She wins today, with a move he's never seen before. He raises an eyebrow, and she smiles faintly.

“I haven't worked it out completely yet,” she says. “I'll teach you once I have.” 

He nods. This one bout was good enough for tonight, and so they return the training swords to their places. Byleth doesn't offer any additional conversation, which Felix appreciates. 

“He owes you more than the life he has,” Felix says eventually, as they walk out together. 

Byleth glances at him.

“No one owes me anything,” she says. “I live according to what I want. It's harder now. My father...picked up where I lacked. But still.”

There's a pause.

“And I love him, I think,” she says, thoughtfully. 

Felix chokes, then turns it into a scoff.

“You wouldn't do as much as you are if you didn't,” he says.

Byleth looks at him, her eyes knowing. 

“Mmm.”

Felix flushes, and he snarls at her, but she smiles and he scowls harder. 

“As you will,” Byleth says, echoing a previous conversation of theirs.

“As I will,” Felix responds. “And as you will.”

Byleth nods. 

“Do not forget what I said at Gronder,” she reminds him, before they go their separate ways for the night. 

Felix stills, then nods. Byleth watches him go, but just before he rounds the corner, he turns back.

“…The same applies to you, Professor.”

He slips away after that. She smiles again, looking up at the moon before she makes her way back to her room. Briefly, she wishes Sothis were here the way she used to be. Byleth is— _happy_ , she thinks, and wishes Sothis were here to share in it. 

She sleeps deeply that night. In her dreams, she hears a familiar voice— _you've grown, I see_ —but once she wakes, she cannot remember what was said, only a sense of comfort that it was Sothis who had spoken. 

.

They take back Fhirdiad. 

Cornelia dies, leaving behind both new information and new mysteries with her last breath. It disturbs Dimitri, the revelation that his stepmother may have been the mastermind behind everything, and Byleth watches his eye cloud over. But he shakes his head and moves past his moment of darkness to focus on what needs to be done. 

“Come, Your Highness,” Gilbert says, “You still have some responsibilities that must be carried out. Your people have been patiently awaiting your return.”

Dimitri's eye goes wide.

“Do you mean...no. I can't bear to face them after all I—”

“You must face them,” Byleth says, before he can finish.

He looks at her with surprise, but nods after a moment.

“Professor...right you are, as ever. I am their king, after all...”

They walk towards the royal balcony, and Dimitri’s face is pinched as they do so. Byleth reaches out and pats his back, and Dimitri sucks in a deep breath before he straightens his spine and walks out to greet the citizens without any more hesitation.

The sight he sees shocks him—what seems like every person in Fhirdiad is crammed into the royal square and into every street he can see, cheering for him.

“What…is this?” he breathes, and Gilbert smiles.

“As you can see, the people are rejoicing at the return of their king.”

“Even though I turned my back on them, and fled the Kingdom in disgrace…”

Dimitri trembles, his voice wavering. 

“Even so, the spectacle before you does not lie. We are a Kingdom in need of a king, a hero to save the people from their long oppression. Your Highness…it is truly a blessing that you have returned.”

Dimitri swallows, his mouth opening and closing a couple times before he can get the words out. 

“Do I really have the right to stand here? Will they accept me as their king? Bloodstained as I am…am I fit to be king?”

His voice cracks, and tears begin rolling down his cheek.

“They’ve already accepted you,” Byleth says, stepping closer, just a little. “From here, you—we—move forward, together.”

He turns to her, and she blinks, reaching up a hand as if to wipe away his tears before she stops herself. Not here, where he is King, appearing in front of all his people. But Dimitri’s lips tug into a smile, eye bright with fervor.

“These are happy tears, my friend,” He explains, as he turns back to the crowd. “I am finally home again. Faerghus...how I missed you.”

He stands for a moment longer, then bows to the crowd before heading back inside. They roar even louder at this display of humility. 

The rest of the Blue Lions are waiting for him, most of them grinning from ear to ear.

“I think this, at least, calls for a celebration, don't you?” Sylvain smiles, his eyebrow raised in expectation.

“How can I refuse?” Dimitri says with a slight laugh, and the red-haired knight whoops. 

“ _Hell yeah_! Let's get this party started!” he hollers, and the other soldiers who hear him begin cheering as well. 

Dimitri smiles. He doesn't even need to do anything to prepare—the soldiers and everyone else make the party happen, and so do the citizens outside the castle. They can't exactly let the place be overrun, but—they end up opening the courtyard, at least, so that everyone has more space for revelry. Soon, Dimitri is being plied with drink and food and swept alongside Sylvain's pace, and it is a little while before he realizes Byleth is missing. 

.

He finds her at the castle roofs, overlooking the city. 

She turns at his approach, smiling faintly, and he feels warm at the sight of it. 

“Hello, Professor,” he greets, “Have you grown tired of the festivities?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she replies, tilting her head to motion him closer. He steps over, and they look out at Fhirdiad together. 

“It's more...that I find it difficult to be around everyone at the moment,” he confesses. “It's still hard to believe that I can...deserve this.”

She reaches up and he stoops a little so that she can cup his face with her hands. He smiles shyly at this familiar gesture. 

“You do,” she murmurs. “I know it will take time. But you do.”

He says nothing, only continues to look at her with a rueful expression, and she stares back willfully. 

“There are some things on my mind,” he says, after a while. “May I trouble you?”

“Tell me,” she insists.

He does. Dimitri tells her of his parents' graves, his thoughts about the upcoming battles and Edelgard. He confesses his concerns over being king—a good king, and his failures as a human being. 

“There are no instructions on how to be a human being,” Byleth says, her eyes distant. As the wind rustles her hair, Dimitri is reminded that this woman is Goddess-blessed, truly so, and wonders what her thoughts on humanity are. “So you can only try your best...and fight for what you believe in. You have your work cut out for you as king, certainly…but you are not alone. Remember that.”

There's something wistful about the way she says it, as if it doesn't apply to her. He reaches out for her, this time, to take her hand, somehow afraid that she might disappear.

“There is so much to do, it makes my head spin,” he says, “I will...need your help to do it.”

She blinks at him, seeming surprised, and for a moment he's—terrified, that he is overstepping his bounds, that she never intended to stay here, with him, with all of them. She tilts her head at him, and the silence drags on for a few heartbeats.

“I—forgive me, I didn't mean to trap you here, if you had wanted to travel—”

He lets go of her hands, but she reaches back out to grab them again. 

“A place,” she says, “Do I have a place here?”

“Of course!” Dimitri almost yells, scandalized. Her eyes widen at his expression. “How could you not? Always. With me, with all of us.”

Her smile is slow, and the warmth in her eyes is beautiful. 

“How strange,” she murmurs. “A place, a home.”

She lets his hands go after a moment, but she is still smiling at him, and he thinks, after the war, he should tell her.

A messenger arrives, bearing a plea for help from Claude, and the moment is broken, but there is nothing to regret. This is a war, after all, and there are things they must still do. 

.

The weeks fly by quickly, as they grow closer and closer to their confrontation with Edelgard until they day is finally here.

Claude leaves Fodlan after the battle in Derdriu, Dimitri and Edelgard speak in private to establish that there is only one way that this tension between them will end, and then they are storming Enbarr as their final battle. 

Edelgard's form in the throne room is—monstrous, strange, and there are too many questions to be asked with no answers, especially once she is struck down. Dimitri and Byleth are the only ones who bear witness, with their other friends and soldiers still fighting in other parts of the castle. 

There is no further conversation, as the demonic form melts away from Edelgard's skin and she falls to her knees. Dimitri reaches out a hand, she looks up at him and smiles faintly, and he is hoping, _hoping_ —

Edelgard reaches into her cloak, Byleth puts a hand to the hilt of her sword, and Dimitri steps forward.

Areadbhar goes through the Emperor's chest easily, cleanly, and the childhood dagger in Dimitri's shoulder hardly even hurts. 

Edelgard tilts to the side with a dull thud. Dimitri removes the dagger and stares at it, the blade glistening with his blood. He'd given it to her as encouragement, so that she might carve a future for herself. She did, he supposes; or tried to. And now it has been returned to him. 

“Come,” Byleth says, her voice soft yet firm. 

He turns to follow her, feeling numb despite the victory. She opens the door, sunlight flooding into the room, but he stops short, turning back to look at his stepsister's body once more before he leaves her behind, should he even be leaving her behind—

Byleth threads her fingers with his, stopping him from walking towards Edelgard's remains. He hadn't even realized he was moving away from her side, and he looks at her, momentarily adrift. She doesn't say anything, turning once more and taking him with her. 

The daylight burns. 

Out on the balcony, he can see the continuing fights. He stumbles forward, looking to Byleth, and she nods.

“Go,” she says.

He goes. He grips the stone and pitches his voice as loud as he can.

“The Emperor is dead!” he yells, “Imperial soldiers! If you lay down your weapons now, we will treat you with mercy. _Hear me, Enbarr! The Emperor is dead_!”

The news carries slowly but surely through the battlefields, until the air is deafening with cries of triumph. Preoccupied with victory as they are, no one tries to look closely at their king's face; only Byleth is privy to his lack of smile. 

Dimitri is exhausted; he cannot muster up the proper joy that everyone else is feeling at the moment. Edelgard is dead, and so are several other students that he shared time at Garreg Mach with. So are thousands of soldiers that he does not know the faces or names of, and civilians as well. The war may be over, but there is still a staggering amount to do, and King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is so, so tired. 

His arm lifts not by his own volition and he looks down to see Byleth looping his arm over her neck as she ducks under and straightens, supporting his side. Because of her height and posture, it merely looks like he has put his arm around her. But he knows what the gesture means and is grateful for it; she is here by his side, she will weather what comes with him. 

“I'm here,” she says, as they watch the soldiers cheer.

“That you are,” he agrees. “Thank you.”

She smiles at him, and the sun feels less violent on his skin; it is warm and the light is energizing, as if it accepts him, as if he belongs there. 

.

She finds him in the Goddess Tower, after they return to Garreg Mach. The celebrations are still carrying on from the previous day, and Dimitri will not begrudge any of them their joy, but he himself is exhausted from and of the festivities. He wants—needs—quiet, and the topmost floor of the Goddess Tower is too troublesome a place for someone to merely stumble upon, even for a tryst. Byleth is either of the same mind or simply knows where to find him, but her presence is welcome, always so, and he smiles as she approaches. Encouraged that she isn't intruding, she comes to stand next to him, and Dimitri feels wholly at ease, now. 

“We find each other this way often, don't we?” he says, with a low chuckle. “Escaping big parties.”

She smiles at him, looking out at the lights. 

“I...don't think I'll ever like them,” she confesses. “They…overwhelm me easily.”

She never had cause for parties such as these, as a mercenary. But even Dimitri...

“I liked them more when I was a child,” Dimitri says, his eyes distant, “When I could spend them with Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain. After we started growing up...I liked them less and less.”

Byleth looks at him, but says nothing. 

“In any case, the air here is refreshing. And the quietness here is...different...than the quietness on the battlefield. It is nice.”

She knows what he means. It's not silent; they can still hear the faint revelry, and the distant cheer is pleasant. Byleth watches as Dimitri closes his eye for a brief moment as a breeze passes, the air cool on their skin, and she shivers a little. 

“Forgive me. Are you cold?”

Dimitri unfastens his cloak and offers it to her. The air is chill but not unpleasantly so, but she likes his cloak and smiles a little as she takes it anyway, draping it around herself. He looks amused by how dwarfed she is in its folds, and when she buries her face in the fur, he laughs a little. 

It feels good to hear him laugh. 

The warmth from the fabric is immediate; the fur is soft, the garment smells like Dimitri, and she could fall asleep right here. She leans against the stone wall and closes her eyes for a moment, and she must have ended up actually dozing for a few moments because when she opens her heavy eyes, she realizes that Dimitri is staring at her, his emotions naked and vulnerable on his face, unmistakable. 

Her eyes widen.

Dimitri flushes red, from neck to ears. 

“I...I—” He stammers, bringing a hand up and turning away.

She reaches for him, fascinated, bringing his face back into view, and he turns redder, if possible. 

“Professor,” Dimitri squeaks, “It's just, I—”

“Dimitri,” Byleth murmurs. “Thank you.”

He blinks at her, confused, but she doesn't offer an explanation. 

“I...think those should be my words, Professor,” he says, shyly. “Much has changed, but you will always be the one who has guided me so kindly. My ally through all. My beloved...” He trails off, considering, then smiles. “Yes...my beloved.”

He takes a deep breath before he continues. 

“There is...something I wish to give you, before the coronation. Give me your hand, please.”

Byleth stares at the silver ring, the emerald bright even in the darkness of the tower. She stares at it so long that when Dimitri speaks again, he cannot hide his nervousness. 

“Please... I beg of you. Say something! If you do not wish to accept it, please just tell me. If so, I will face the truth and walk away.”

She shakes herself out of her stupor, and removes the thin chain around her neck, pulling it out of her clothes to reveal her mother's ring. 

“An exchange,” she says, as he holds out his own hand. “I love you,” she adds, if it wasn't evident, because he should know. 

His smile is—bright, so bright, and just as he finishes saying “And I, you—” she pulls him down to kiss him. It's quick and chaste but when she pulls away, Dimitri's eyes are wide and he picks her up and spins her, laughing. She smiles wide, and then she's laughing too as she puts her arms around his neck. He spins her round and round and they're dizzy when they kiss again, but as they do, Byleth marvels at this feeling, at the happiness that is so keen in her not-beating heart it almost hurts. 

.

A week before his coronation, she slips into his office, her face impassive. He rises from his chair and bends to kiss her cheek; she tilts up to meet him. 

“Will you forgive me,” she says solemnly, “If I leave for a while?”

He blinks and tilts his head a little in question, smiling slightly.

“I would forgive you for anything,” he says, and takes her hands. “But I'd very much like more details, if you could spare them.”

She smiles back, squeezing his fingers. 

“I will be here for the coronation, of course,” she replies. “But after that—I'd like to travel. Seteth and Rhea...you've heard they want me to be the new Archbishop. Five years ago, when they appointed me professor...I was not qualified for that. And now, as they want to appoint me Archbishop, I am not qualified either. But it is a position that could be used well, to go good, and better.” She looks out the window, eyebrows creasing slightly, her voice troubled. “I still do not understand the depth of their reasoning. Seteth would be a better choice, perhaps even Flayn. Yet, I am inclined to take it, even if it is not much a choice. But not now. I would travel first—a year, perhaps more. There are things that cannot be done from the walls of a castle or monastery.” she looks at him again. “Titles are no longer easily shed, now. You and the others cannot move so freely. But I can, for a bit. And I'd like to take advantage of that.” 

Very rarely has Byleth spoken so much at once, and Dimitri is mildly surprised to hear it. But he smiles again, and touches his forehead to hers. 

“After Fhirdiad, that night on the roof, do you remember what I said? I did not mean then to trap you here then; I would not trap you here now, or ever.”

“I know,” she says, leaning her head against his chest, her voice melancholy still.

“You do have my forgiveness, if you still wish it,” Dimitri tries again.

“I know,” she says, in the same tone. 

“I love you,” Dimitri says, quieter. “I will miss you.”

She wraps his arms around him and squeezes a little. She doesn't have to speak; he knows she means the same, and feels warm. 

He puts his own arms around her, and they stay there for a while, until the sun begins to dip and turns the room gold.

.

The weather is glorious, the day of the coronation. The sun is high, the sky clear and a brilliant blue. Excitement and joy crisp the air.

Supplies are scarce still, but those who can spare it scrape together what they are able to to furnish festivities—banners and little cakes and skewered meats, juices spiked with probably-contraband alcohol everyone turns a blind eye to.

Lady Rhea is pale and wan at the crowning but no less beautiful; Seteth and Flayn stand with her, as does Byleth. Though she will not be taking up the Archbishop's mantle quite so soon, the news of Byleth's eventual ascension in the next couple years has spread, and so no one finds it odd that she is there.

And Dimitri. He is solemn and poised at the ceremony, but when Rhea crowns him and he finally turns to face the crowd, his smile is bright, and radiant when the air vibrates with cheers. He relents to taking part in some post-coronation celebrations, sharing food and drink with nobles and commoners alike, dancing alongside the children and attempting their games.

Byleth smiles as she watches. She's never been one to mingle like this, but it feels wrong to slip away this time. She does, however, graciously accept the food she's being plied with by Ingrid and Annette and Flayn. Eventually, Dimitri finds his way over to her corner and takes her hands; the young ladies sigh, both dreamily and with slight disappointment, because any fool with eyes could see that what was between the new king and the eventual new Archbishop.

“Dance with me?” Dimitri murmurs, and Byleth tilts her head up at him, blinking.

“This, coming from someone who refused to dance in the White Heron Cup so strongly?”

Dimitri laughs; his friends turn to catch his expression, so light.

“Well...I never did manage to ask for a dance during the ball that year. I have regretted it since. Will you do me the honor of a dance today?”

Byleth smiles, bemused, and takes his hand as the musicians begin a ditty.

The King is a competent dancer, if lacking in grace, and his partner is stiff, though she eases up with more steps. Theirs is not an elegant nor impressive dance, but simple and natural and sweet.

“ _A dance!_ ” someone roars, sounding suspiciously like Sylvain, and the guests laugh and pick a partner—anyone near and willing to participate, friends and family and strangers alike—and stomp their feet as the musicians pick up the tempo.

Dimitri and Byleth try vaguely to keep up but stick within the steps of their capability, watching the people around them swirl and clap and hop in time. Soon, everyone is laughing; the best dancers eventually are pushed into the middle where they and the musicians put their best skills to the test, and in the thrumming joy of King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd's coronation, for the first time in years, it feels like everything will be alright.

.

She stays four days after the coronation, just enough time to share his bed and hold a council with their allies. The focused atmosphere of the room as they discuss matters of the Kingdom feels very much like their old war councils, though the subject matter is at least a little less grim. Still, there are bandits and pirates to be watched for, farmlands to revitalize, villages and towns and cities to rebuild. That, and alliances to be reforged, policies to enact, and people to bring together. The road ahead is daunting, but Dimitri finds enough comfort in his friends to keep putting one foot forward at a time.

All her former Blue Lions students see her off when she leaves, and though she is taking his heart with her, Dimitri stands proud. She smiles at him as he helps her up on her horse, and she faces all of them with a solemn expression.

“Take care, all of you,” she says.

“No need to worry about us, Professor,” Sylvain says, putting his hands behind his head in that carefree pose she knows so well. “We got this.”

“Don't get yourself killed out there,” Felix grunts, as if he doesn't have full confidence in her fighting prowess.

“Take care of yourself, Professor,” Ingrid says, smacking Felix for his remark, as usual. “Remember to eat.”

“Come back soon, Professor!” Annette says cheerfully. “And write when you can!”

“I'll make sure to have some delicious pastries for you when you get back,” Mercedes adds, with a chuckle.

“Be careful,” Ashe says, faintly worried even though he knows he needn’t be, “Don’t be reckless.”

“Professor,” Dedue says, with a nod. “Travel safe, and swift.”

She smiles at all of them, her Blue Lions, and Dimitri takes her hand one more time.

“I will see you soon, my beloved,” he says, and Byleth nods.

“Soon,” she echoes, and bends down to kiss him before she canters off, not looking back to see the blush rise on his cheeks. 

Dimitri watches her go, in silence.

“Come on, Boar,” Felix says, not unkindly, as Sylvain claps Dimitri on the shoulder. “We've got our work cut out for us.”

“That, we do,” the King sighs, and he and his most trusted advisers walk back into the castle together.

.

Oddly enough, the months pass quickly. Dimitri does not have time to rest, though Dedue and Mercedes insist and take it upon themselves to be personal reminders. The rest of their friends have gone back to their respective territories for now, to handle their own more local issues; Dedue would never leave Dimitri's side, and Mercedes had chosen to turn her efforts to the churches and orphanages in Fhirdiad. Felix and Sylvain would be traveling back and forth every so often, their lands being the nearest, but it would probably be awhile until they saw Ingrid, Annette, and Ashe again.

It’s strange, to be distant from them all as a group, when they had spent the last couple years fighting a war together.

But. Times were different now, and it wouldn't do to get caught up in memories.

“Your Majesty,” Dedue says. The door is open, but he knocks once on the frame anyway. “I’ve brought you some tea, and a repast.”

“Thank you, Dedue,” Dimitri says, without looking up. “Please, set it down wherever there is space.”

Indeed, most surfaces are covered by paperwork now, as well as stacks of books and newspapers, and various containers of various samples from various regions. Dedue looks around before carefully nudging aside a small stack of journals on the low table, setting down the tray. He looks back at Dimitri, whose focus is directed at the report in his hand, eyebrows furrowed and expression grave.

“You are overdue for a break, Your Majesty,” Dedue says, and Dimitri still does not look up.

“Yes, I will eat after I finish this,” he says absentmindedly, flipping to another page.

Dedue is silent for a moment.

“It would be prudent to take your break now,” he continues, his tone even. “As you read this letter that has arrived for you.”

Dimitri’s head jerks up, his entire body snapping to attention.

“A letter? From who?” he says, his tone both hopeful and disbelieving.

Dedue merely smiles.

“It is time for a break, Dimitri,” he says, gesturing to the sofa, and Dimitri lets out a short bark of laughter before rising from his desk. Once he has taken a few sips of tea and two bites of sandwich, Dedue nods his head in satisfaction and leaves the room so that the letter may be read in privacy.

Dimitri’s hands are trembling as he slits open the envelope, his first name printed neatly and without adornment on the front.

The contents are a single small page, quite brief, but it brings a smile to his face nonetheless. He hadn’t expected a long missive—Byleth never had cause to write letters the way nobles did, with flowing introductions and roundabout ways to say what they wanted. The letter is short and to the point, but carefully thought out, very much like the way she speaks.

 _Dimitri_ , it reads, _I think I have gotten used to the cold in Faerghus_. _But I miss your fur cloak, and sitting in it with you._

_I am well. Reports of bandits should be dwindling. They too are displaced and desperate; I have sent those who will listen to Sylvain and Ashe. They’ll have work for them. Some have demanded to stay with me; I suppose we’ve become a mercenary group. I enjoy it; it reminds me of my father. If they turn out good enough and are still with me at the end, perhaps we can make knights of them, though I have not yet told them who I am._

_I am due West next. There is a group of volunteer doctors I’d like to get ahold of._

_Remember to sleep._

She signs off as _Byleth_ , and he brushes his fingers over the letters. It is somewhat strange to see it printed there; _Professor_ had become less of a title and more of a moniker over the years. And then, to him, she was _Beloved_. But she had a lovely name, and seeing her signature endeavored him to call her by name properly when she returned.

He smiles at the last line; even far away it feels like she sees through him. 

He cannot pen a response; she travels too much for there to be any reliability it would reach her. Instead, Dimitri finishes the food Dedue has left for him and lays down on the sofa; he puts the letter on his chest and closes his eyes.

He sleeps.

.

Recovery is a long and arduous road; Dimitri has good days and bad, though the former now outweighs the latter. Still, there are days Dimitri is choked by the mantle of responsibility he wears, as well as the ghosts that have never quite left.

(Edelgard is among them, now. Had she not been willing to sacrifice so much of what was not quite hers to sacrifice, she would have been an excellent Emperor. He is glad that he was able to speak with her towards the end, even though the answer was still the same between them. She was always strong, and bold in her methodology back at the Academy. Sometimes, he lets himself think that in a different world, he would have been pleased to ask her advice on occasion.)

There are days where he locks himself in his office, or chambers, and allows no one in for hours. Dedue and Mercedes leave food by the door; sometimes he takes it and sometimes he doesn’t.

 _But_. He is improving, in these moments.

More often, now, he can gather just enough of himself to take out Byleth’s letters and read them over and over with shaking hands, until he has mind enough to unlock the door. Sometimes he will find Dedue, and ask to turn his hands in the greenhouse, or some other sort of manual labor. Sometimes he will seek Mercedes, and sit with her by a window and once more attempt embroidery, which takes every ounce of his focus not to break the needle.

He still sleeps badly. He still speaks aloud, sometimes, to those who aren’t there. He still retreats to a place where very few can reach.

But he remembers his friends, and Byleth, and the times he spent crying into her lap or her hands. How patiently she bore him, then. And without her here, how patiently he must now bear himself.

.

A year passes, and a half, and then two.

Dimitri sends aid where he can, writes decree after decree, bill after bill, fights tooth and nail against nobles who still too comfortable with their own power to have his plans instilled. 

It becomes common to see King Dimitri and his retainer in the market after especially difficult and frustrating meetings. He is still a sight to behold, with his height and eyepatch and frustrated countenance, as is his retainer who often accompanies him with his stoic face and solemn air. But the townspeople have also grown quite familiar with them as well. The children like to climb both of these tall men like trees and sit on their shoulders as they peruse the market, steering them to their own parents’ stalls; King Dimitri’s face is always softer by the end of these walks, and if they’re lucky Dedue will also grace them with a smile. 

The seasons are just about turning again, from spring into summer, and Garland Moon is upon them. The markets are teeming with blooms, carefully cared for to maximize their freshness; Dimitri smiles as he passes today. He stops in front of a stall with a bucket of small, light blue flowers; they have a slightly greenish tint as well, reminding him suddenly of Byleth’s hair.

“I know that look. Weaving a special garland, Your Majesty?” the older woman running the stall says with a kindly smile. “I’ll cut you a good deal.”

Dimitri laughs, brushing a finger against one of the petals.

“Perhaps I should,” he murmurs.

The shopkeeper looks at him a little pityingly, but he doesn’t mind. His beloved’s identity is well known, even though she hasn’t been seen in these past two years. Letters to Dimitri have also grown scarce, and he cannot help but worry. He misses her dearly, and is not ashamed for it.

He buys the green-tinted ones and a few other flowers at the shopkeeper’s recommendation. People smile at him as he makes his way back to his office, arms full of flowers, and he sets to weaving them into a garland with careful hands. He had been taught in his Academy days by Annette and Mercedes and Ashe, and last year Mercedes had given him a refresher course. He’d woven a couple lopsided garlands to place at the graves of his parents, and a few more for others whose graves were elsewhere. Glenn and Rodrique, in Fraldarius territory. And Edelgard, in Enbarr.

The last he makes with particular focus, using the almost-mint flowers and a few white ones. He’s pleased with the result—actually uniform—even if there’s no chance of him being able to give it to the intended recipient. Dimitri allows himself a wistful sigh before he gathers up all the garlands and begins making his way to the castle cemetery. 

Perhaps tribute is no longer necessary, but…there are still tributes he wants to make, in honor, in love, in respect.

.

(In the market a little bit later, the same shopkeeper who sold the King his flowers sells another bunch of the bluest blooms she has to a traveler in a well-worn cloak.

“For a garland, traveler?” the shopkeeper says cheerily, “I’d recommend these as well—the King himself bought some not too long ago.”

“Did he, now?” the traveler says, her voice quiet and lower than one might expect. When she lifts her head from the display, the shopkeeper blinks. There’s something familiar about the face, those bright blue-green eyes, the impassive expression. “I will stick with these, I think.”

The shopkeeper completes the transaction without attempting any further marketing, still trying to figure out who this person is. It bothers her that the answer is on the tip of her tongue—the eyes, the tendrils of hair peeking out from the hood, the face…just _who—_

By the time the woman’s identity hits her full force, the not-so-stranger is already walking away, in the direction of the castle.)

.

(The traveler lets her hood down as she nears the castle gates, and one of the guards recognizes her almost immediately. She supposes there aren’t many with her particular shade of hair and eyes, but plenty people _don’t_ know who she is. This guard must have seen her at one of the few public events she was present for—probably the coronation, or the following festivities. His entire face had lit up at the realization; he waves her through with impatient movements, and she gives him an amused look as she passes.

She is not dressed properly for a visitor to the castle, but she still knows the halls well enough to look as though she has a purpose, and thus attracts less attention than she might otherwise. Those who recognize her do double-takes and gape; she nods her head in acknowledgement before moving on, and none of them stop her.

Dimitri is not in his chambers or his office; there are other places she could check, but instead she sits on the sofa of his office and begins weaving the flowers in her arms into a garland. It doesn’t take very long, and as she checks its shape, a startled clatter sounds from the doorway, and she looks up to see Dedue staring at her with wide eyes, having almost dropped the tray in his hands.

“You’re back,” he says, and though the words are blunt his tone is warm.

Her eyes crinkle in amusement; how rare it is, to see Dedue caught so completely off guard like this.

“I am,” she says.

There are many conversations to be had, so much to catch up on, but instead Dedue smiles and sets down the tray of tea and pastries.

“He went to the cemetery,” he says, reaching out to shake her hand in welcome. “But I suspect he’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll go,” she says, as he expected her to.

“I’ll have more food prepared for you upon your return, and send word to Mercedes,” Dedue says, and she nods her head in thanks as she sweeps out of the room.)

.

He is crouching by the graves of his parents when she finds him, speaking soft prayers into the air.

Dimitri turns when he hears the gate creak. It takes him a moment to process who he’s seeing.

He wonders if he’s dreaming.

She smiles at his shock, and as she nears, he reaches out his hand.

“A ghost?” he asks, voice trembling.

“No ghost,” Byleth responds, taking his hand, interlacing their fingers. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

She places her garland on his head, and he rises from his position slowly, as if she might dissipate if he moves too fast.

“It turns out I have one for you as well,” he whispers. He crowns her with his own garland that he didn’t think he’d be able to give her, then cups her cheeks gently. “You’re really here?”

“I’m here,” she murmurs, placing her hands over his.

He lets out a soft breath. Dimitri envelopes her in a hug, careful of his strength, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and she wraps her arms around him, squeezing tightly.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he says against her neck, and she laughs softly.

“What have you been up to, these past two years?” she asks, an echo of a more bitter conversation long ago.

“Living, more or less,” he says as he pulls back, with some humor; if he thinks back on it, it’s been a blur of constant work. “May I tell you about it over tea?”

“Yes,” Byleth says, and tilts up to kiss him.

They’re both smiling when they part, and he hugs her again before lifting her up in his arms. She laughs softly and slings an arm around his neck, looking perfectly at ease with this carry. He’s shyer as they make their way back into the castle, but also proud and unable to stop smiling. They stop any passersby in their tracks—one, because the King is positively _beaming_ , and two, Byleth’s presence is a surprise, whether they recognize her or not. Those who don’t know her learn her identity quickly; if the King himself wasn’t enough of a clue, the exclamations from those who had glimpsed her earlier fill in the blanks. Excitement begins to buzz in the air again as the news of Byleth Eisner’s return passes from mouth to mouth.

Dimitri and Byleth and Dedue take tea as all of this is happening; Mercedes rushes in just a few moments later, bearing handmade sweets that she’d made just this morning. The friends catch up as much as they can, but eventually Dedue and Mercedes beg leave to return to their own duties, though the controlled politeness of their excuses is telling. Byleth gives them amused looks as they leave; they smile back.

“Will you be staying?” Dimitri asks, and winces at the sheer hopefulness in his voice.

“I had not yet told Rhea and Seteth I would be returning,” she responds, smiling a little over her teacup. “And I am a bit new to the city. I will need a room.”

Dimitri laughs.

“I’m afraid my rooms are rather bare,” he says, “But may I offer you their humble space?”

“I think they will suffice,” Byleth says, and he smiles.

.

He wakes choking back a gasp, struggling to get his breathing under control.

It’s late into the night, though how late he’s unsure. A beam of moonlight filters into his room, and he relaxes a little more when he sees Byleth lying next to him, still sleeping. He lies there for another two counts or so before slowly slipping out of the bed, so as not to disturb her. 

He tugs on some loose pants but doesn’t bother with a shirt, quietly walking out to the balcony and gripping the balustrades, breathing deeply. The nights are still chill, but he _is_ Faerghus-born, and so he feels very much at home in it. Still, it is only a matter of time before his skin begins to feel numb, and he retreats back inside, feeling at least a little bit calmer. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about in detail, but he often dreams of the same things—the Tragedy of Duscur, his imprisonment, any and all of the people who have died in his lifetime. Though his heart rate is slowing back down to a normal pace, his mood and shoulders are now heavy, and it will be a challenge to fall back asleep in this state.

Byleth sits up when he clicks the door to the balcony shut, the blankets sliding off of her body, and she doesn’t bother pulling them up to save modesty, her entire countenance exuding sleepiness.

“I woke you,” Dimitri says apologetically, keeping his voice low, “Please, go back to sleep.”

She mumbles something, sliding out of bed as well, to his dismay. She still seems half-asleep as she makes her way over to him, tugging him towards the chaise. He sits on the arm after some light pushing on her side, and she remains standing as she rests against him and hugs him around the neck, her cheek on the top of his head. A chuckle rumbles low in his throat, and he wraps his arms around her waist, sighing into the crook of her arm. His skin must be freezing if hers is so warm from the bed, but still, she holds him tight.

“Did I look so pathetic?” he asks, with a wry smile.

“Merely troubled,” she replies. “And lost.”

He sighs again.

“Only a nightmare,” he says, “Not unusual.”

She murmurs an acknowledgement, pulling away from him, and he stops a noise of protest from rising in his throat.

Byleth tilts her head and smiles, taking his hand, moving further back.

“Come back to bed,” she says, and stepping into the beam of silver moonlight, smiling as she is, standing unadorned and unashamed, she looks a dream.

Dimitri doesn’t have words; he lets himself be led back underneath the blankets. Byleth presses her forehead to his.

“I’ll guard your dreams,” she says, and he smiles.

“How can you do that?” he asks, with a slightly cheeky lift of his chin.

“I’m here,” she responds, brushing back his hair.

“Yes,” he says, closing his eye, “I am glad you are.”

.

It’s late morning by the time he wakes, and his body is heavy with sleep. He swims back up to consciousness slowly, focusing first on the fact that his hand is holding another, and he traces up the arm and shoulder and neck until he meets Byleth’s eyes.

She’s sitting with her knees drawn up, a sheaf of papers in her lap and one sheet in her free hand, partially dressed in a very loose shirt that he vaguely recognizes as his.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Good morning, Beloved,” he responds thickly, blinking a few times to chase the grogginess away. In his hazy, half-conscious state, he thinks idly that this must be what true happiness is, waking up to the one you love so dearly.

As he lies there, taking his time to fully come out of sleep, he slowly notices the strength of light filtering into his chambers—too strong—and rises abruptly.

“What time is it? I’ve overslept,” Dimitri says, looking around frantically, but Byleth reaches over to squish his cheeks together, tampering down his panic.

“You have,” she admits, “But the Kingdom is still standing. Dedue came to check not too long ago. We both agreed your prolonged sleep was necessary.”

“The reports—”

“The Kingdom is still standing,” Byleth repeats. “And will continue to stand. Will you take breakfast with me?”

He blinks at her.

“Of course,” Dimitri says, still somewhat disoriented, especially by the abruptness of subject change, but Byleth nods and gets out of bed first, stretching her arms.

“Help me dress?” she asks, looking back at him, and Dimitri softens.

“Of course,” he repeats.

Mercedes had sent up more court-appropriate clothing for her, and though Byleth is still unused to the length and style of the dresses, they are still undeniably beautiful garments. Dimitri brushes the tangles in her hair out with exquisite care, and zips her into her chosen gown of pale blue and gold. Afterwards, she helps Dimitri into his own clothes, tying back half his hair for him. They smile as they assess each other, and Dimitri opens the door for her with a gentlemanly gesture.

“Dedue said he’d prepare breakfast,” Byleth says as they walk together, “I have missed his cooking.”

“I expect he will provide us with quite the spread this morning, then,” Dimitri says, chuckling.

They cross a shadowed part of the hallway and Dimitri stops for a moment, realizing, suddenly, how _easy_ this feels. Just as she had so many years ago, she’s slotted herself back in so neatly, as if nothing has changed, as if no time has passed between them. How happy he’s been since her return, and also, how carelessly _carefree_ —

“Dimitri,” Byleth says, and he snaps his attention to her, though her tone had been soft, gentle.

She smiles, eyes knowing, and holds out her hand.

“Shall we go?” she asks, and Dimitri gives himself a little shake.

“Yes,” he says, as he moves forward. “I’m coming.”

He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, offering his arm like a proper escort.

They descend the stairs together.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a really tough time tweaking (Byleth's) dialogue for this fic...this was intended to be like, way, WAY shorter than it ended up, so I didn't think too much about just using the in-game dialogue, but the more this expanded and the more I continued to use it (also sometimes as placeholders), the more I felt kind of pigeonholed by it. But by the time I was like "I should've just paraphrased/drawn from the dialogue instead of transcripting it directly" the idea of reworking those parts was too stressful since I had built off of it so much already haha. Hopefully they don't sit _too_ oddly. Dimitri's route is HEAVY, and he asks some heavy questions re: his right(s) to live and be king. Rough!! Responding to that with the proper care and nuance it deserves is really hard!! I hope I didn't treat it too badly. In all honesty, I'm still having an incredibly difficult time figuring out how I want to portray Byleth, so this fic was also like, prototype characterization of sorts haha. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!


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